


The Manticore and His Shadow

by Kaeldrea_Rose



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon compliant swearing and sexual observations though..., Genderswap, I don't know anymore...Enjoy?, I haven't slept in days, I wrote this at 3:00AM, No beta - we die like men!, Not sure how graphic the violence is - warning is there anyway, NyQuil is a hell of a drug..., Very AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27982470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaeldrea_Rose/pseuds/Kaeldrea_Rose
Summary: Tyrion's speech at his trial gained more notice than he realized. A champion comes forth to fight in his name, and it isn't Oberyn.
Kudos: 3





	The Manticore and His Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, the joys of sleep dep. I have no idea if any of this makes any sense whatsoever... Basically, Syndora is a discarded idea for a character in a game/fanfic/what-have-you. I had this thought of what happens to all the half-formed NPCs/OCs that aren't used or discarded before they're ever even named or fleshed out? They just float out there in the void between realities until the soul of someone that resonates with their character calls to them. It's why she resembles a few different well known literary characters while being her own person. I don't know what I'm saying anymore... I wrote this at 3:00 in the morning while hopped up on NyQuil and no sleep.

The small form of a ragged and filthy man sat curled up on the floor of his cell, his back pressed against the cold stone of the back wall, his arms resting on his knees, and his head hanging low in misery and hopelessness. His hair was matted with filth and grime which did much to mute the silver-gold strands. His once-fine clothes of crimson and gold silk and wool were reduced to rags, only his boots having weathered the storm that had been the last few days, though they also showed wear.

'This is hopeless. I'm going to go down in history as the half-man that fought the giant.' He snorted in hateful misery. 'I can hear the bards now... the Imp versus the Mountain.' Tyrion Lannister rubbed his hands over his face, barely succeeding in holding back a scream. 'I'll be nothing but a greasy red stain on the courtyard stone that horses piss and shit on.'

  
Bronn had just left his cell after explaining that he would not fight as Tyrion's champion, decked out in a blue cape which signified his place under his new liege lord. Tyrion had understood, even as his guts turned to ice and his mind froze at the implications. He didn't hold it against the man; Bronn had always been honest about the manner of their relationship.   
_Gold speaks, and I listen._

  
Tyrion sat there in the damp, dirty cell as the shadows lengthened and the sun sank below the city walls, his mind caught between a numbness brought on by sheer terror, and the frantic flailing of a cornered animal trying desperately to figure a way past the enemies attempting to tear him to shreds. He leaned his head back to rest against the stone wall behind him as he stared into the shadows coating the far corner of the room, trying to see a way out of his current predicament, or barring that, at least calm his brain enough to allow him some form of rest.

  
If he hadn't been staring straight at them, he would have missed it. As it was, he barely caught the shift and shiver of the shadows as they darkened, even though there weren't any torches that would cause them to do so. Tyrion blinked slowly, not really registering just what his eyes were seeing as the darkened corner seemed to shift like fog and two points of light reflected out of them, like a cat's eyes in the dark. They _were_ eyes, he realized as they became clearer, settling into a pair of eyes that were a deep metallic grey, like darkened quicksilver. The eyes soon coalesced into a beautiful pale face as the shadows seemed to pour off the figure like liquid fog or blackened blood.

  
Tyrion's eyes widened and he blinked rapidly as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The heart-shaped face was beautiful and pale, with lush lips the color of heart's blood, a small pert nose, cheekbones that his sister would gladly kill for, and eyes of molten silver framed by long lashes of inky black. Her hair -- and it was a her, Tyrion would recognize a female form anywhere no matter the situation he was in -- was the same inky black, so dark it seemed to suck in the light around it, and was pulled into a high tail at the crown of her head with a section that fell over her forehead and framed her face. As the shadows melted from her form, he was struck dumb, for while he was, for once in his life, in a position that kept him from truly appreciating it, her figure was one he definitely would have panted after had his situation been different. She seemed fairly petite in stature from what he could tell from her crouched stance, though he made out the curves of hips, the nip of a waist and the roundness of breasts that would cause any straight-blooded man to drool, and women to seethe in envy.

  
The true shock though was her attire. Tyrion had never seen armor, if it could be called that, like it before. Black as a moonless night, she wore a suit of leather that hugged her body like a second skin, causing the garment to be borderline indecent even though it covered her from her chin to her feet and everything in between.  
She looked at him for a second with a heavy, piercing gaze, as if she could see down into his very soul and was weighing his worth, before her mouth widened in a happy mischievous smile.

  
"I found you!"

  
Her voice was a whisper on the wind and the chime of bell rolled into the softness of a warm quilt lined in furs, filled with such joy and accomplishment that it made his heart stutter in is chest. He'd never heard a voice like it before, especially in regards to him. 

  
The moment was broken, and Tyrion pushed himself further back against the wall, his knees coming up to help protect his body and his hands pressed against the floor in preparation to try and flee as the woman crawled across the floor towards him. Her movements were sinuous and lethal, like the descriptions of a shadow cat he'd read, and she came to a stop in front of him. Sitting back on her feet while still kneeling in front of him, her gaze never faltered as she stared at him.

  
"Tyrion, my Manticore."

  
Tyrion blinked at her in fear and confusion, not sure what to say, or even think for that matter. His brain had decided to abandon him it seemed, his greatest strength failed him, only managing to throw a thousand questions into a churning windstorm of half-formed thought. He looked into her earnest gaze, her eyes filled with an almost manic delight, and managed to force his tongue to work enough to form a question.

  
"What...who are you?"

  
She tilted her head in the way that a falcon might, eyes roaming over him, looking at something that only she could see, her smile dimming but not vanishing completely.

  
"I have no name, for I was never complete enough to be given one. As for what I am; I am a spark, a drop in the abyss, a child of the void formed from an errant thought and half-formed concept."

  
Tyrion had no idea how to respond to that. If he hadn't seen her appear with his own eyes, he'd have sworn that his mind had finally broken from the stress and hopelessness of his situation and was playing a cruel and nonsensical game with him. Not knowing what to do with the response she granted him, he decided to play along.

  
"Right... of course you are. Well, since I can't very well call you 'spark' or 'void drop', we should come up with a name for you."

  
Her smile became blinding, and her eyes lit up with expectant glee, but she didn't move from her kneeling position, seeming content to wait. He blinked at her and licked his parched lips, wracking his brain for a reasonable thing to call her. 

  
"Uhhh... how about... Syndora? It means 'shadow' in high valerian."

  
While Tyrion didn't speak the ancient language himself, he had spent many an hour studying dragons when he was young, and had learned many of the words. The newly dubbed Syndora seemed overjoyed with her new name and bowed deeply to Tyrion, her eyes glassy with tears.

  
"Thank-you, my manticore, for my name. You have given me the greatest gifts one can receive."

  
Tyrion blinked. This was all so surreal, he was sure that he was going to wake up, having fallen asleep in his cell, his mind having made this bizarre situation up while he dreamt. 'Might as well see what my addled mind can come up with next. What else am I going to do while I wait for my imminent demise?'

  
"You're quite welcome, My Lady. Might I ask why... _how_ you are here?"

  
Syndora leaned further towards Tyrion, placing her hands on either side of his feet, gaze sweeping over his face as if she was trying to both memorize his features and make sure that he was actually and truly real.

  
"I heard it. Your soul cried out, in rage, in anguish, it called for vengeance. Your roar ripped through the void and called me as I slept. It reached me, woke me, completed me, called for me and sang to mine own."

  
Tyrion stared at her in shock, marveling at the look of wonder and reverence on her face, and he flinched when she lifted a hand to his cheek, rubbing her thumb under his eye. He had never had anyone look at him like she did in that moment, like he was the most precious thing she'd ever seen.

  
"I have waited for countless aeons for you, to hear your soul roar and call me to your side. To feel the depth of your soul-song as it resonates with mine. I am yours, and you are mine, Tyrion Silver-tongue, for it is you that completes me and make me whole."

  
Silence filled the cell as Tyrion and Syndora stared at each other, one not knowing how to respond, and the other content to remain silent. Syndora's hand caressed Tyrion's face, her fingers gently tracing over his features like a parent might do to their new born child, so enraptured by their existence that they had to touch just to make sure that they were truly real. 

  
Eventually her hand dropped to her lap and she sat back on her feet, the movement finally snapping Tyrion out of his stunned stupor. He slowly lowered his knees until he sat cross legged and rested his arms on his knees, surreptitiously pinching his thigh as he did so. Hard. 'Ow... huh... I suppose this is truly happening, then...' Tyrion nearly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter at the absurdity of that thought - almost - before the reality of his surroundings forced him to remember his current situation. He gave Syndora a wry, hopeless grin that held none of its usual roguish charm.

  
"You wouldn't happen to know any mighty warriors would you? For while I am delighted to make your acquaintance, I'm afraid that our friendship will be but a brief one, for I am to meet my fate tomorrow through trial by combat."

  
Syndora's eyes widened in surprise before filling with mischievous glee, her mouth splitting into a devious grin.

  
"I do indeed, Tyrion mine."

  
Tyrion's eyes bugged out in shock, and his heart skipped a beat before hammering in his chest. There was no way that he was this lucky.

"Oh? Who might that be, My Lady?"

  
Syndora gave a maniacal giggle before giving Tyrion a look reminiscent of a cat that ate a flock of canaries and washed it down with a gallon of cream. She raised her arms in the air, stretching her spine before laying belly down on the floor, heedless of the grime, chin in her hands and black covered feet kicking in the air behind her.

  
"I was not given the background of a lady, my manticore, but that of a fighter. I am a warrior, an assassin, a survivor. I was given a few skills and powers, but none so fleshed out as my ability to kill."

  
Tyrion was sure that his heart was going to stop and his eyes fall out of his head in his shock. He couldn't hold in his incredulity.

  
"...You?"

  
Her smile was fierce and cutting as she brought her arms down to the floor and crossed them as a resting lion might.

  
"Me."

  
She looked at the disbelief on his face in confused amusement.

  
"Is this strange to you?

  
Tyrion swallowed thickly, not wanting to insult her, for if she spoke true then she could be his salvation.

  
"Unusual, My La -- Syndora. Women are not known for their prowess in battle here in Westeros. Though some, like in Dorne, do learn to fight, they are not typically warriors."

  
Syndora gave Tyrion a slow blink, her face passive before understanding dawned.

  
"You mean because I am female."

  
At Tyrion's hesitant nod of affirmation, she gave a delicate snort and looked out the window in thought. Tyrion was struck by the fact that this was the first time that she had looked away from him since she first appeared. It felt strange, even uncomfortable, to not have her direct attention.

  
"That is stupid."

  
Tyrion snorted in amusement at the indignant reply and couldn't stop the small grin that curled the edge of his mouth. He was rewarded with her attention once more as she gave him a sly side eyed look before turning her head to face him once more, her face holding both amusement and frustration.

  
"Would I not be able to fight for you, Tyrion mine?"

Tyrion gave a wry shake of his head, deciding to just roll with the whole situation. He would break down in hysteria later.

  
"While there aren't any rules or laws that expressly forbid it, traditions and the current Hand wouldn't allow it. The queen might, just to spite our father, but as much as Circe wishes otherwise, Lord Tywin's word is final."

  
Syndora's lips curled into a disgusted grimace before smoothing out as she tipped her head, humming in thought. She gave another slow blink, then gave a vicious and mischievous smile that bared too many teeth.

  
"So I just need to be male in order to be your champion?"

  
It was Tyrion's turn to blink, though he did so rapidly in response to both her grin and the question.

  
"Yes... though I both am, and am not sorry to say that it would be nearly impossible for you to do so. You have far too feminine a figure and your voice, while lovely, could never be mistaken for a man's."

  
Syndora's smile morphed into a smug smirk, and she stretched her body like a cat before standing up. She was petite, Tyrion realized, only a few inches over five feet, and while she had luscious curves, they seemed to be more muscle than anything. Except her breasts. Those, Tyrion was gratified to see, were blessed with the perky softness of youth. Tyrion had always considered himself a connoisseur of women, and he was pleased to note that even in the midst of all the betrayal, hopelessness, rage, and crazy fuckery that had been the last few days, he had retained his eye for a beautiful woman.

  
As Syndora stood, she reached her hand behind her back, and after moving her feet into a balanced stance, she made a throwing motion at the ground. Black fog-like smoke billowed around her, completely covering her from view, and Tyrion's heart faltered at the sight, his hand reaching out as if to stop her, a cry of surprise and denial on his lips. His fear changed to incredulity when the fog rapidly dissipated to show, not the beautiful form of Syndora, but one of a man. A man wearing the same outfit as Syndora had with her same coloring and hair, yes, but a man all the same. Gone were the feminine curves, and in their place were the narrow hips, flat chest and stomach, and broader shoulders of a male that, while still on the short and lean side, was obviously built for speed and prowess in battle. The man had his arms crossed in front of his chest, one knee bent, hip-cocked, and... oh. There on his face was the same smug smirk that had been on Syndora's.

  
"Ah... Syndora?"

  
The man grinned, his face lighting up in devious delight and he executed a graceful, if flamboyant, bow.

"At your service, my Manticore. Will the Queen and her Hand allow me to fight for you now?"

  
Tyrion just blinked for a full minute in response. He snapped out of it when Syndora walked toward him and bent down, putting a finger under his chin and shutting his mouth from where it had been hanging open in shock. She... he?... then tapped him on the nose before standing up and crossing their arms once more.

  
"So, who do I need to talk to?"

======================================================================

Tyrion sat on the wooden bench, bracketed by Syndora on his left and his brother, Jaime, on his right. Ostensibly, Jaime was there to guard him and make sure he didn't do anything, but Tyrion knew that he was there to give him as much moral support as he could. He appreciated the gesture. It was comforting to know that the one family member he had that liked him didn't think him capable of kinslaying, even if he hadn't spoken up in Tyrion's defense. Syndora, in her male form, leaned over slightly and nudged him with her knee.

  
"Should I go for the one-shot-kill, or do you want me to play with him first?"

  
Tyrion noticed the incredulous look that Jaime side-eyed them with, but he ignored it, glancing towards where Prince Oberyn Martell sat near them with his paramour Ellaria Sand. Oberyn had come to Tyrion's cell that morning to offer himself as Tyrion's champion. Not for Tyrion's sake, he knew, but for the chance to get revenge on the man that had raped and murdered his sister and her children. The man had been understandably upset at the lost opportunity, but had bowed out with grace regardless.

  
Their eyes met, and Tyrion held his gaze for a moment before giving him a firm nod, which Oberyn returned along with a smirk. Tyrion then turned back to Syndora and gave her a smirk of his own.

  
" _Humiliate_ him."

  
Syndora's vicious and predatory grin sent shivers down the spines of everyone that saw it, and he -- she? -- gave Tyrion a bow from the waist.

  
"As you wish, my Manticore."

  
Jaime gave them another confused side-eye, but was prevented from saying anything by Maester Pycelle standing and announcing the trial by combat, waffling in his long winded way about tradition, rules of engagement and so forth until he was cut off by Lord Tywin Lannister telling him to proceed. Pycelle blustered a bit, but announced the combatants -- first being Ser Gregor Clegane, known to most as The Mountain that Rides. He was a massive behemoth of a man, stomping into the arena in darkened full pate, his greatsword almost longer than Syndora was tall. The crowd was both cheering like mad for the spectacle that was to come, but also in fear at the sight of one of the most feared monsters-masquerading-as-men. Circe's mouth curled in a smug and cruel smirk when she glanced at Tyrion and she gave a regal clap at the sight that her champion made.

  
Syndora nudged Tyrion with her...his knee once more and gave him a teasing wink as...he...stood when Pycelle called for Tyrion's champion to come forth, his face smoothing into an icy, detached focus as he entered the ring. He looked almost comical standing there in front of Clegane, like a child in front a man full grown, and there were many in the crowd that laughed and jeered at the 'little boy playing warrior'. Circe didn't even try to hide her amusement at the sight, and made some disparaging comment to their father that Tyrion deigned to ignore.

  
The two warriors and killers stood facing each other, Clegane holding his massive sword one-handed, Syndora simply standing side-faced his hands loose at his side. Pycelle made some speech about the judgment of the seven before Lord Tywin called for the trial to begin.

  
Clegane immediately roared and brought his sword up in a sweeping diagonal slash, but Syndora simply leaned out of the way, seemingly not bothered by the giant sword passing so close to his face. The Mountain brought his sword around in a two-handed downward slash, but again Syndora just dodged. This went on for a few minutes, Clegane howling like the mad dog he was and swinging his greatsword in powerful arcs and stabs, Syndora seeming to dance effortlessly around the strikes. He hadn't even drawn a weapon yet. 

  
Then, there was a moment where he spun behind Clegane and spared a glance at Tyrion, his face shifting from near boredom to a devilish smirk. He looked back to his foe and pulled two wicked looking daggers from their hidden sheaths on the small of his back. Their blades were as long as his forearm and made from darkened metal, their handles from blackened bone. He spun them in his hands before he used the butt of a handle to tap on the back of Clegane's shoulder, ducking the reflexive swing. 

  
"Am I too much for you, Clegane?"

  
Syndora side stepped a heavy overhead swing and used the opening to dart out and slash at the vulnerable inside of his left wrist where the leather glove met the steel of his bracer, causing Clegane to bellow in pain and drop his left arm from his sword.

  
"Must your opponents be unarmed women and children?"

  
Clegane gave a cry of rage and swung his sword in a one handed cross strike, once again missing Syndora as he spun behind him around to his other side. He tapped the butt of his dagger of The Mountain's right shoulder this time, rolling under the back swing, and coming out a few feet in front of the man.

"Did it make you feel like a man to murder the queen and her babes?"

  
Clegane's form radiated rage as he spat at him, baring his teeth in a foul grimace like smile. 

  
"I did as ordered, and I enjoyed the queen greatly before I killed her."

  
The air was filled with shocked gasps and disgusted cries. Tyrion turned to look at Oberyn, not surprised by the mixed look of seething hatred and vengeful glee. He'd finally had his confirmation about the identity of Elia's murderer, in the form of a confession from the man's own mouth no less. One that had also confirmed Tyrion's father's involvement, for if there was anyone that held the mad dog's leash it was Tywin Lannister.

  
Not seeming to care what he'd just admitted to, Clegane took a single step forward, bringing his sword out in a powerful thrust, only for it to miss again as Syndora dodged once more and ran forward only to drop to his knees and slide between the Mountain's legs, slashing at the joints where leg met groin. He spun around, going to one knee behind him and lashed out at the unprotected backs of his thighs, causing the howling dog to collapse to his knees. Using a hand to brace himself, Syndora the hopped up to sit on Clegane's shoulders and wrapped his legs around his throat. He spun his daggers in his hands again before turning them inward and plunging them both to the hilt into the opening of his helmet.

  
There was a moment of utter silence and stillness before the mighty form of The Mountain that Rides toppled forward like a felled tree, Syndora merely pulling out his daggers, unhooking his legs and riding the body down to land in a standing position over the now cooling corpse. He took a step forward, neatly avoiding the spreading pool of blood, wiped off and sheathed his daggers, and turned to look directly at the utterly livid faces of the Queen and her Hand.

  
The silence went on for so long that Syndora raised his eyebrow and made a two handed gesture toward the body of the fallen Clegane as if presenting a prize. The silence broke with the shout of laughter from Tyrion and he turned to his brother as the crowd went insane with cheers and excited screams.

  
"Do you have a key, brother? It seems that for once, the gods have favored me."

  
Amidst the roaring of the crowd, the furious cursing of the Queen, and the outcome of the match being called by Maester Pycelle, Syndora made his way back over to Tyrion as Jaime fumbled with unlocking the manacles.

  
"Was that enough humiliation, my Manticore?"

  
Tyrion looked up to Syndora and gave a relieved and slightly hysterical laugh.

  
"It was indeed, Syndora. I'm sure that Prince Oberyn is thankful."

  
Syndora gave a fierce grin and an vindictive chuckle as Jaime looked at them in poleaxed confusion.

  
"Why do you call him your Manticore? That's the symbol of house Lorch, not Lannister."

  
Syndora gave Ser Jaime a glance before his eyes snapped back to Tyrion, his gaze softening in devotion.

  
"He may have the body of a lion, but he has the heart of a dragon."

**Author's Note:**

> All of the internet cookies and other treats if you can guess three of the five fictional characters Syndora is based off of. =^-^=


End file.
